The Love of a Rogue (12 page)

“You don’t wish to see me?” He arched an eyebrow. Determined to not let her know how greatly her dismissal affected him, he closed the space between them, then captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her gaze to his. “Tsk, tsk, how very rude of you,” he taunted in a bid to protect the walls he’d erected about his heart.

“What would you have me say, Alex?” The muscles of her throat worked spasmodically. “That I’d prefer His Lordship’s presence to yours because he doesn’t make me wish for, long for, things I’ve no place longing for?” He released her and stumbled away, panic building once more, but she continued relentlessly. “Would you have me say that with your charm and your blasted quoting of Shakespeare you make me forget the pledge I took after the Duke of Montrose to never be so imprudent where a roguish man is concerned?”

He flexed his jaw. Annoyance filled every corner of his tightly held being. “You’d compare me to the likes of Montrose?” he tossed, resenting that for the esteem he’d come to place her in, she could relegate him to the ranks of that lecherous, deceptive man who’d betrayed her.

“Come, Alex,” she scoffed. “Surely you’ll not be a hypocrite.” He bristled and opened his mouth to launch a protest. “You stole my moment of solitude quite deliberately, listening while I exposed my private thoughts.” Her tone grew increasingly agitated. “And believed I should desire a man for nothing more than his title. Again.”

The wounded hurt in her eyes brought him up short.

Imogen folded her arms under her chest, digging that blade of guilt all the deeper. “You see, Alex, we’re more alike than different.” They were nothing alike. She was innocent and unsullied by the true ugliness of the world. “Oh, aren’t we?” she needled, seeming to hear his unspoken words. “You’ve found me no different than every widow and wedded woman you’ve ever taken to your bed.”

At her words of him with another, his neck heated with shame. He wanted to strike the truth of them from her lips but instead stood there in humbled silence.

“What did they desire of you? A kiss?” Far more than a kiss. “Likely far more than a kiss,” she murmured. A fiery curl fell across her brow and his fingers ached with the urge to brush it back. “And as shameful and shocking as it is for me to admit as much, I want your kiss and…” Color bloomed on her creamy white cheeks yet again and she drew in an audible breath. “I want more.” Imogen dropped her voice. “But it is the more that is different than all those others. Even having been betrayed as I was, I want love, Alexander. I hunger for it, ache for it, and I could never, would never, have the love of a man who makes eyes at any wanton widow.”

Her words sucked the thoughts from his mind as he tried to sort through the implications of her admission. Terror built in his chest, pounding madly in the rapid beat of his pulse, drowning out sound.

Imogen’s full lips tipped up in a sad rendition of a smile. “You’ve nothing to say, but why should you? A man such as you would never want my love, my heart…and
that
is why I longed for the marquess’ presence because when I am near him, my heart is not endangered.”

“I hate this room,” he said, and she stilled, eying him through perplexed eyes. “With every fiber of my being, I hate this whole townhouse.”

She shook her head in confusion.

And suddenly it was very important in a world where no one truly knew him, in a world where he was desired for his sexual prowess and not much more, that this bold-spirited, beautifully courageous woman know he was more than the black-hearted rogue she’d taken him for. “My father spent years beating the truth of who I am and what I am into me.” A dark, empty chuckle escaped him.

Horror lined her face. “Alex,” she whispered, and touched trembling fingers to her lips.

Restless, he stepped away from her. He didn’t want her pity or her sympathy. He wanted her to understand. “I’m nothing more than the less desirable second son, who ladies would take to their beds but not the man who’d truly be desired for anything more.” It had been far easier to bury himself in mindless amusements through the years than to be forced to analyze the person he was, the person he wanted to be.

“That isn’t true,” she said fiercely, fire in her eyes.

“Perhaps,” he said simply. “Perhaps not.” Alex had spent years being trained to believe one thing and, as a result, couldn’t quite separate who he was from who he wasn’t. “Regardless, this house, this room, reminds me of all the dark.” He dragged a hand through his mussed hair. “Yet when you are in it I don’t see any of that darkness. You challenge everything I believe of myself and of women.” Alex stalked over and took her firmly by the shoulders, angling her close. He ran his gaze over her face. “Until I no longer know who I am or what I am or what I want to be.” She threw into question every lesson ingrained into him by his father on Alex’s own self-worth. She made him feel worthy, and more, made him want to be a better man—for her.

Her lips parted, emotion bleeding from her eyes. Alex released her suddenly and stepped away. Wordlessly, he retrieved his jacket and as he walked to the door, slipped the wrinkled, black, evening coat, back on. He paused in the threshold, not looking back. “I was not making eyes at anyone last night, Imogen. Not anyone that wasn’t you.” This clever, fiercely brave lady had broken through the façade he’d constructed, as that of a careless rake, leaving him exposed.

She drew in a soft, shuddery gasp, and too much of a coward to try and make sense of that slight exclamation, he quickly took his leave.

Chapter 8

I
mogen stared after Alexander’s swiftly retreating frame. Her heart in her throat threatened to choke her with the force of her emotion. She touched her hand to her cheek, remembering his words of Shakespeare and now this exposed, raw figure who shared the pain of his past in a bid to explain the bitterness of his present.

Unbidden, her gaze fell upon the forgotten leather volume he’d tossed aside and, drawn to the small book, she picked it up, running her gaze over the title—
Romeo and Juliet.

I was not making eyes at anyone last night, Imogen. Not anyone that wasn’t you.

Imogen sank onto the edge of the seat he’d occupied moments ago? Hours? A lifetime? She stared blankly down at the book in her lap. With one exchange, but a handful of words, Alexander had thrown into question everything she knew or everything she’d thought she’d known of him. The world of black and white had been easier to understand than this now, murky shade of in-between that she didn’t know how to make sense of. She’d accused him of hypocrisy, and yet in truth there was no greater hypocrite than herself, for she’d neatly shelved Alexander in a category of unrepentant rogue. She’d never really allowed herself to consider who he’d been before he’d been that man.

Now, she knew. And the knowing was so painful. She tightened her hold upon the leather tome in her fingers. He’d shared but one memory of his father and the vile blackness he found in this home, and that memory had opened her eyes to the scarred, broken child he’d been. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them back. She’d not pity him. She didn’t pity him, and yet, several slivers of her heart broke apart and crumpled at thinking of the dark-haired boy he’d been, fearing this room, this home, this—

“Oh, dear, never tell me you’re thinking of him again.”

Imogen hopped to her feet, the book tumbling from her fingers and falling to the ground with a noisy thump. “Him?” she repeated blankly, as her friend sailed into the room.

Chloe rolled her eyes. “You’re a dreadful liar,” she said, stopping in front of Imogen. “You’ve not ceased to think of him.”

She hadn’t. God forgive her, she hadn’t. Not since, she’d tilted her head back to find Alex staring down at her with the damning piles of scandal sheets littered about her feet. “How did you know?” she whispered. Had she been that transparent to her friend? A panicky sensation built steadily in her chest. Had others at the theatre seen her staring up at him longingly?

“You’re my friend, silly.” Chloe took Imogen’s hands in hers and gave a slight squeeze. “I know you loved him.”

Loved him? “What?” the question tumbled too quickly from her lips.

Her friend giggled. “Whatever is wrong with you, Imogen? You’re all dazed and befuddled.”

And at last it made sense. Chloe believed she pined for the duke. “Nothing. I… Nothing is the matter,” she said at last. Chloe settled onto the sofa and Imogen allowed her friend to pull her down beside her.

“Why are you so somber?” she asked, all earlier amusement gone from Chloe’s intelligent and kindly eyes. “I saw Alex taking his leave down the opposite end of the corridor.” Her mouth hardened. “Did he say something to upset you?” By the tension in her tone, Imogen suspected if she said yes, her friend would blister her older brother’s ears.

“No,” she rushed to assure her. Or rather, in a way it had been his words that had upset her, but not in the ways her friend believed.

“He was angry,” Chloe pressed, like a dog with a bone.

Imogen dropped her gaze to her rose-colored, satin skirts. “What was he like?” The question slipped out before she could call it back. Her friend looked at her questioningly. “As a child,” she asked before her courage deserted her. “What was Ale…Lord Alexander like as a child?” This insatiable desire to know more of him made her incautious, needing to know who he’d been back when he’d begun to see his home as a place of darkness.

Chloe released her hands and said nothing for so long Imogen believed she intended to say nothing or had failed to hear the question. A sliver of her wished that her friend mayhap hadn’t heard, because how could she explain to this woman, her dearest friend, that Alex had so captivated her?

“He was my protector.” Chloe’s eyes grew wistful. “My defender.” There was something so very sad in her eyes, something not altogether different than what she had seen in Alex’s eyes. How odd to know someone so well and yet not at all.

Imogen’s voice emerged tremulous and she despised that showing of weakness. “And you needed a protector?” She reached for her friend’s hands. They were stiff and cold in her hold, but she held firm, trying to infuse some of her own strength into her dearest friend.

“Don’t we all in some way need defending?” Chloe returned, saying nothing and everything all at once. “Our father was a brute,” she whispered, her words so barely-there that Imogen strained to hear.

A chill snaked down her spine as she recalled Alex’s horrifying revelation. Naively, nay foolishly, she’d not allowed herself to believe that such pain had also been visited upon Chloe and her sister. Bile climbed up her throat. Oh God, the fiend had put his hands upon his daughters, even. How had she not known? Why had Chloe not told her? “Oh, Chloe,” she said softly.

Chloe drew her hand back and waved it about dismissively. “Alex was so frequently earning our father’s displeasure.” She glanced about, her wide-eyes more fearful than Imogen ever remembered. When she returned them to Imogen once again, she spoke in hushed undertones. “Sometimes I believed he strove to earn our father’s displeasure to protect me and Philippa.”

Her gaze wandered to a point beyond Chloe’s shoulder. How much of Alex’s role as rogue had been a carefully crafted ruse, an indolent, second son who’d never earn anything but displeasure from a vile, abusive man? Had he even realized he’d made that transformation to save his sisters?

“Society doesn’t know the true Alex,” Chloe said, bringing her back to the moment. “They see the carefree rogue and wastrel who finds his pleasures at his club, but…” she held Imogen’s gaze. “That is not who he is. Nor is it who he’s ever been.” There was a hard, forceful edge to those words, a steely resolve belonging to an equally protective, younger sister.

Unknowing how to respond, Imogen said nothing.

Chloe touched her fingers to her temples and winced.

Concern for her friend replaced her preoccupied thoughts with Alex and Chloe’s tragic youth. “Are you all right?”

Her friend gave a wan smile. “Just a bit of a headache.”

A wave of guilt flooded her. As long as she’d known Chloe, the young lady had been prone to megrims whenever she was beset by stress or worries. “I’m so sorry,” she said, the words wholly inadequate.

“For what?” Chloe asked, far more magnanimously than Imogen deserved. “For caring about my brother, who is my dearest friend?” She flinched again.

“For upsetting you.”

Chloe narrowed her eyes as though the thick sunlight penetrating the curtained windows had blinded her and drew in a slow, deep breath. “It is not your fault. You didn’t know,” she said when Imogen made a sound of protest.

Her guilt redoubled. She should have known. As Chloe’s friend and confidante through the years, it should have not taken the words of the woman’s older brother to open her eyes to the true hell known by her and her siblings. Just as she should have known there was more to Alex than he presented the world. “You should rest,” Imogen murmured, taking to her feet.

Her friend rose slowly. Her stiff, jerky movements hinted at the pain Chloe was in. “I am s—”

“If you dare finish that apology, I shall never forgive you,” she warned. Then much the way she’d done when they’d been in finishing school and Chloe was suffering from one of her megrims, she took her gently by the elbow and placed her other arm at her waist and steered her from the room.

“You are a dear,” Chloe whispered, her voice faint.

“If I was a dear, I’d not have upset you as I’ve done,” she said dryly, even as concern swirled inside for her friend. The two women fell silent. Imogen had learned long ago that even the slightest sound brought her friend to great pain. She guided her through the corridors, looking about for a servant.

The Marquess of Waverly stepped out of his office and she sent a silent thank you skyward for his timely appearance. He opened his mouth to greet them, but then took in his sister’s grey-white pallor and hunched shoulders.

“It is another of her megrims,” Imogen said quietly, taking care to not speak too loudly.